


And I Said Dangerous, And Here You Are

by jaradel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sat on the opposite side of the cab from John, practically pressed up against the door. He could feel his skin vibrating with an emotion he couldn't put a name to, and it was driving him mad. He stared straight ahead, afraid that if he looked at John, with his arm in that blasted sling, what little resolve he clung to would evaporate. The thoughts in his head were an unbearable cacophony, and the loudest thought of all was what had put him in this foul mood in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>John almost died tonight.</em></p><p> </p><p>Companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/855688">Could Be Dangerous</a>.  This is the story from Sherlock's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Said Dangerous, And Here You Are

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Challenge 1 of Tumblr's Let's Write Sherlock.
> 
> Unbeta'ed, all mistakes are mine. I also know nothing of medical procedures in A&E, so please don't crucify me for any inaccuracies there.

          Sherlock sat on the opposite side of the cab from John, practically pressed up against the door. He could feel his skin vibrating with an emotion he couldn't put a name to, and it was driving him mad. He stared straight ahead, afraid that if he looked at John, with his arm in that blasted sling, what little resolve he clung to would evaporate. The thoughts in his head were an unbearable cacophony, and the loudest thought of all was what had put him in this foul mood in the first place.

_John almost died tonight._

~~~

         Lestrade had called them to take a look at a supposed locked-room suicide with no note. Sherlock had initially pronounced the case a four at best, but as Lestrade described the scene, it quickly rose to a seven, and he and John set off to a tower block in Docklands to investigate. Just one glance at the crime scene, and Sherlock knew something wasn't right about the body; John confirmed that the bruises on the victim’s hand were indeed suspicious, and on closer examination Sherlock could see that they formed a partial handprint. Murder then. He started telling Lestrade of his findings, not paying attention to the fact that John had wandered down the hallway of the victim’s flat. Suddenly he heard the sound of a body hitting the hardwood floor and a muffled “Oof!” from John, and an unidentified man running hell-bent out of the flat. Sherlock took off in pursuit with John close on his heels and Lestrade shouting after them. They tore out of the tower block and down a few streets before cornering the man in a dead-end alley, where he pulled a gun.

         Shit.

         John – brave, loyal, wonderful John – stood in front of Sherlock, shielding him from the suspect at the other end of the alley. The man’s hand was shaking and his eyes were wide with panic, cornered as he was – all of which added up to a powder keg of a situation. Sherlock calculated that there was only about a twenty percent chance of them getting out of this unscathed, and at least a sixty percent chance that one or both of them would end up seriously wounded, if not dead. It only took Sherlock a split second to calculate all of this, but in that split second he missed that John was doing some mental arithmetic of his own. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, and a shot rang out.

         Sherlock froze, a cold trickle of unadulterated _fear_ running down his spine. _No no no not John please not John!_ his mind screamed as he scrambled to his feet and pelted down to the other end of the alley, hot unshed tears blurring his vision. He skidded to a halt next to John and the suspect, swiping his eyes with the end of his scarf, and processed two important facts.

         First, John was alive.

         Second, John was bleeding profusely from a wound on his left arm.

         A swooping sick feeling coursed through Sherlock’s gut as he quickly unwound his scarf from his neck and crouched down next to John, who was sitting on the suspect’s torso, pinning him to the ground. The gun was safely out of reach, and whatever John had done to the suspect while Sherlock was flat on his back had effectively incapacitated the man. John had already taken off his jacket and was inspecting the wound on his arm, the blood soaking the sleeve of his oatmeal jumper. Sherlock could see the first signs of shock setting in on his friend’s face as he wrapped the scarf tightly around the wound and tied it off.

         “Sherlock! John!” Lestrade shouted, pelting down the alley with Donovan close behind.

         “John’s been shot!” Sherlock shouted back, standing up. He picked up John’s jacket and carefully hauled him to his feet as Lestrade cuffed the suspect. Sherlock could feel John shaking, and he wrapped his left arm protectively around him, willing what little body heat he had to go into John and warm him up. A squad car and an ambulance pulled up at the mouth of the alley, and Sherlock guided John to the paramedics.

         “Gunshot wound to the left arm,” Sherlock said without preamble to the first paramedic he saw. “Doesn't appear to have penetrated but he’s bleeding a lot and going into shock,” he added, fighting to keep his voice steady and clinical, when all he really wanted to do was scream.

         The paramedic peered at John, whose face had taken on a decidedly ashen pallor. “We need a gurney over here!” she shouted to her partner, who quickly wheeled one over. Sherlock and the paramedic lifted John onto the gurney and stretched him out. The paramedic unwrapped the scarf from John’s wound; Sherlock plucked it from the young man’s hand and crammed it in a spare evidence bag that he had long ago stashed in his coat, and shoved it in his pocket. Sherlock moved to John’s right side, picking up his friend’s hand and threading his long fingers through John’s smaller ones. _Elegant, strong hands,_ Sherlock thought. _Not clumsy or stubby, but deft, careful, capable of the most delicate procedures or the most deadly maneuvers._ _Please John, please be alright…_

          “’M fine, Sh’lock, just a flesh wound,” John slurred with a slight giggle, and Sherlock realized to his horror that he’d said his last thought aloud.

          “Shhh, John, don’t talk. We’re going to hospital. It’ll be alright, it’ll be alright,” said Sherlock in a voice even he didn’t recognize – a low, soft, _soothing_ voice. The paramedics were ready to load John in the ambulance, and one icy glare from Sherlock quelled any potential objection to the detective riding along. “He’s my flatmate – my friend,” Sherlock bit out, and the paramedic nodded uneasily, but allowed Sherlock in the ambulance all the same. Even as they loaded John, Sherlock kept hold of his hand, and held it all the way to the hospital, murmuring to John in that same low, soft voice. “It’ll be alright, it’ll be alright…”

         When they arrived at the Royal London A&E, Sherlock finally let go of John’s hand. John had dozed off on the way over, but the paramedics had assured Sherlock that his vitals were good, he was just coming down from the adrenaline. John was covered with one of those horrid orange blankets – if Sherlock never saw one of those ever again, it would be too soon – and wheeled into the A&E. Sherlock followed close behind, giving John’s information to the admitting nurse, but when he tried to follow as they wheeled John back for treatment, his way was barred.

         “Sorry, sir, family only,” the nurse said firmly.

         “But – he’s my flatmate. My friend. You don’t understand—“

         “I’m sorry. Hospital policy. You can wait out here, and we’ll let you know when your friend is ready to be discharged.”

         Sherlock growled – actually _growled_ – at the nurse, but she was not to be swayed. Finally he stalked off to a seat that was furthest from the telly and every other living soul in the waiting room. Belatedly he realized he still had John’s jacket in his hands; he brought the collar of it to his nose and inhaled John’s scent, and a fresh wave of uncomfortable emotion threatened to engulf him again. Curling up as small as he could in the uncomfortable chair, he hugged the jacket tightly, burying his face in the collar.

         After about thirty minutes a young doctor in scrubs ( _engaged, but sleeping with one of the night-shift nurses; trysts often happen at the hospital itself; still paying off loans from medical school)_ emerged. “Family of John Watson?”

         Sherlock unfolded from the chair and stood, wincing at a crick in his back from his previously contorted position. “I’m Dr. Watson’s flatmate – er, friend,” he said quickly.

         The doctor offered his hand and Sherlock shook it perfunctorily. “And you are…?”

         “Sherlock Holmes.”

         The doctor’s eyes widened fractionally. “Oh – right, right, should have known, _that_ John Watson,” he said almost to himself.

         Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “And what is Dr. Watson’s condition?” he asked, his voice overlaid with steel.

         “On the mend. The bullet grazed his left arm, approximately two inches above his elbow, but it cut a deep gash. We gave him a tetanus shot and stitched up the wound, but he lost a bit of blood in the ordeal. He doesn't need a transfusion, but we’d like to keep him for a little while longer to administer IV fluids. He also has a prescription for pain medication.”

         “May I see him now?” Sherlock asked.

         “Sorry, hospital policy states that only family or legally designated next of kin be allowed back in the treatment rooms with the patients. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait out here.”

         Sherlock blew out his breath in frustration. “He doesn't _have_ any family save for an alcoholic sister to whom he rarely speaks. If you know who he is, you know who I am, and you know that he and I have been flatmates for – for years,” Sherlock said, uncharacteristically stumbling over his sentence. Yes, they’d been flatmates for years, except that for approximately three of them, Sherlock had been presumed dead and had quite literally walked the earth.

         The doctor shook his head sadly. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I’m well aware of who you are and who he is, but unless he has had you legally designated as next of kin, I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait out here.” With that the young man turned and went back to the treatment area, leaving Sherlock to fume silently.

         Curling up in his chair once again, John’s jacket pressed to his nose and mouth, Sherlock weighed his options. He could call Mycroft and have his officious older brother pull some strings, but he was loathe to get him involved; three years of taking orders from the pompous git had left their mark, and the Holmes brothers were more distant now than they ever were before. He thought about stealing a set of scrubs and sneaking back there, but dismissed that idea almost immediately – coming back from the dead just a few months before, and having his mug plastered over every broadsheet in London, had made him almost instantly recognizable. Add to that the conversation he’d just had with the attending physician, and he likely wouldn't make it past the admitting desk. Grinding his teeth in frustration, Sherlock rested his head on his knees and drifted into his mind palace to while away the time.

         That was a mistake.

         Sherlock’s mind palace, normally a refuge from the chaos of the outside world, was in complete disarray. It had already had a decent tossing while he’d been away, but these new and uncomfortable emotions he’d experienced this evening had done one hell of a job to the interior. He had to make sense of this – why was he so affected _this_ time? This was what they did, Sherlock and John; they solved crimes, chased criminals, risked their lives to prove that Sherlock was clever and that John was still a capable soldier. They’d both been wounded several times, with more than a few visits to the many A &E departments around the city. Hell, the staff at UCL knew them on sight now, and John was on a first-name basis with most of them. Most of the time John would tend to their wounds in the comfort of their flat, sitting at the kitchen table where tea and biscuits were just as vital to the healing process as the many medical supplies John had dutifully collected over the years. Danger was part of the thrill for both of them; they lived off of it just as surely as they lived off of tea and takeaway. _And I said ‘dangerous’, and here you are._ Danger is what took them from flatmates to friends the night that John met him in front of 221B. So what was it about tonight that had rattled Sherlock so badly?

_John almost died tonight._

         Sentiment. Goddamn sentiment.

         “Mr. Holmes?”

         Sherlock looked up into the face of a nurse he hadn't seen yet that evening. “Yes?” he said, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.

         “We’re ready to discharge Mr. Watson now. He’ll need some supervision tonight, is there someone who will be able to watch him?”

         “It’s _Dr._ Watson, and yes, I’m his flatmate. I’ll look after him,” Sherlock replied coldly, unfolding himself from the chair and standing.

         The nurse cleared her throat nervously, now looking up at Sherlock towering over her. “Ah – right then. We’ll send him out.” She walked away briskly, as if eager to remove herself from his presence as soon as was humanly possible.

         Sherlock stretched his long frame and rolled his shoulders to knock the kinks out. He walked over to the sliding doors and stepped outside into the cool night air, hoping it would clear his head. A few minutes later, he heard the doors open behind him, and the familiar footfalls of his flatmate came to a stop next to him.

         In that moment, the nameless emotion that had so muddled his brain since this ordeal began, finally coalesced into something he could label: _anger._ And underlying that anger was an even more disturbing emotion: _fear._

         Sherlock wordlessly handed John his coat, resolutely avoiding the older man’s eyes. Stepping out to the curb, he hailed a cab, and when one stopped, he opened the door for John to get in, sliding in after him and closing the door.

 

 

~~~

         Anger. Anger and fear.

         Sherlock let that swirl around in his head a bit. Anger and fear. Angry at John? Or angry at himself for constantly putting John’s life at risk? And fear – what was he, Sherlock Holmes, afraid of?

         Stupid question.

         Sherlock knew the answer all along. He was afraid of losing John. It was the same fear that led him to fake his death, to wander the earth like a nomad to remove every last threat to John’s safety. Yes, he did it for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson too, but it was different with John. Had something happened to Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson, had they ended up dying, Sherlock would have been upset. He would have mourned them, and he would have hunted down those responsible, and _ended_ them. No question.

         John was a different matter entirely.

         He’d have mourned John, and hunted down his killers, had the worst happened. The difference was that there wouldn't be anything to live for after that. Sherlock could live without Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson – he didn't want to; they were good people, and inasmuch as he cared for anyone, he cared for them. Lestrade, the first person to take Sherlock seriously in his self-created profession, and Mrs. Hudson, the mother his mother had never been. He would mourn, avenge, move on.

         There was no moving on from John.

         In a ridiculously short amount of time, John had gone from stranger to interesting puzzle to flatmate to friend to someone without whom Sherlock could not survive. This he knew for fact; in the three years he was gone, he barely functioned. He certainly wouldn't call what he did _living_ ; it was more like _existing_. Going through the motions until he could return home.

         Home wasn't 221B Baker Street. Home was _John._

_Caring is not an advantage._

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side._

_Bitterness is a paralytic; love is a much more vicious motivator._

         Goddamn it all.

         The cab pulled up in front of their flat. Sherlock practically ripped the door off its hinges in his haste to get out, and didn't bother waiting for John. He let himself into the building, slamming the door behind him – heedless of the fact that it was after two in the morning, and Mrs. Hudson was no doubt asleep – and took the stairs two at a time into their flat. He threw open the sitting room door, extracted the plastic bag that contained his bloodstained scarf from his coat pocket and threw it on the floor, then stripped off his Belstaff and chucked it onto the desk. He heard John fumbling with the lock on the front door downstairs and practically ran to his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

         Sherlock leaned back against his bedroom door, attempting to compose himself. He felt shaky, and not from a lack of food. This was a full-body tremble, the sort a person gets when they are under so much emotional stress that the body manifests it physically. He pushed himself off the door and circled to the other side of his bed, sitting down with his back to the headboard and his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He heard the faint sound of John’s footfalls on the stairs and into the sitting room, coming to a halt just inside the door. Then the sitting room door closed and latched. Silence, and then John was moving again, this time into the kitchen. _Why doesn't he just go to bed?_ Sherlock thought irritably. He knew what was coming – could predict John like no one else could – and he didn't want to have this conversation now. In fact, he didn't want to have this conversation _ever_.

         Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin and closed his eyes, willing his body to calm itself. If he could just get through tonight without a confrontation, if he could just get a handle on these bloody inconvenient emotions, everything would be fine. He and John would continue on as they always have, flatmates and friends, and John wouldn't ever know just how scared Sherlock had been tonight, when the crack of a gunshot had stopped his own heart.

 _Knock knock_. “Sherlock? You OK?”

         Sherlock’s hands dropped to the duvet, balling into fists. _Fuck._ “I’m fine, John, go to bed,” he gritted out, trying to keep his voice steady. _Go away John, just turn around and go upstairs, don’t make me do this…_

         He heard a muffled _whump_ as John leaned on the door from the other side. “Not really in the mood to sleep, to be honest,” he said wearily.

         Sherlock tipped his head back against the edge of the headboard, praying to a God he didn't even believe in to give him strength. “Well then find something else to occupy you. I’m not really in the mood to be your entertainment right now.” _Shit._ He didn't mean to add that last part, but it spilled out anyway.

         There was a pause, during which Sherlock deduced that John was processing what he’d said. “Sherlock, seriously, what’s the matter? You don’t sound like yourself.”

 _Buggering fuck._ Of all times for John to be uncannily perceptive, it had to be the one time that Sherlock didn't want him to be. He squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut. The only way to get John to leave him alone was to be an arsehole. Sherlock didn't want to resort to that, but he wanted even less to have this conversation. _Arsehole, then_. He jumped off the bed, rounded the end of it and took two strides to the door, wrenching it open. John had indeed been leaning against it, and just barely caught himself on the doorframe. “I _said_ , I’m not in the mood, didn't you hear me? Or did the bullet take out your hearing as well as a chunk of your arm?” Sherlock spat.

         John’s expression shifted, and Sherlock could practically hear him slotting the pieces together in his head. There weren't enough vulgarities in the English language to properly express Sherlock’s frustration at that moment. “Is that what this is about? Sherlock, we do this all the time. 'Could be dangerous', remember? Why are you upset about it _now_?”

         Sherlock clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “I. Don’t. Want. To. Discuss. This,” he ground out, and moved to shut the door in John’s face. But John, who was both entirely predictable and the greatest mystery Sherlock had ever known, threw his good shoulder against the door, pushing Sherlock backward. The force of the blow caused the door to ricochet off the wall with a loud crack, and both Sherlock and John stumbled backwards, Sherlock barely stopping himself from crashing into the bookshelf behind him.

         “What the ever-living _fuck_ is wrong with you?” John shouted at him.

         Sherlock glowered at his friend, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he blew out his breath in frustration. “What’s wrong with _me_? There’s nothing wrong with me, but clearly you’re missing a fair few brain cells because _you_ seem to think it’s perfectly sane and rational behaviour to charge a man holding a gun when you’re unarmed!” he shouted back.

         “Funny, you've never minded before,” John muttered darkly, holding Sherlock’s glare with his own.

         Sherlock was beside himself with anger. How did John not _get it_? “Well that was _before_ I threw myself off of a six-story building to protect my friends, and then spent three years of my life traveling the world to eradicate a criminal network, and I sure as _hell_ didn't do that just so the _one_ person I care most about in this miserable world could get shot by some imbecilic waste of oxygen who was jealous that his ex-girlfriend was marrying another man!”

_Oh, shit. Oh, bloody fucking hell._

         Sherlock stood there, chest heaving, fists still clenched, breathing through his mouth like he’d just sprinted across London, and looked at John, who was frozen in place. He _really_ hadn't meant to say all of that, even though the thought had been running around his head since he heard the gunshot in the alley, spinning itself up like a hurricane in his mind until all other, more rational, thoughts were shoved out of the way and these pointless and infuriating _emotions_ took over.

         John gaped at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, until he finally said, “You – you care about me?”

         Sherlock snapped. He covered the distance between himself and John in two strides and grasped his shoulders roughly. “Jesus Christ, John, do I have to explain everything to you? Do you honestly believe that I would have done what I did out of some societal obligation? I threw away _everything_ – my reputation, my career, my home, my _life_ – so that the only people I truly gave a damn about could live, and you’re the most important of all.” Sherlock was mortified by the words coming out of his mouth – things he’d never intended to say to John, ever – but it was too late now. “Everyone else – even Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade – they tolerate me. They put up with me in small doses, but eventually they all run away when they've had enough. You don’t. You leave, but only for a little while, and you _always_ return. No matter how awful I am to you, you always come back.” Sherlock could feel the salty sting of the tears in his eyes, and willed them to not fall. ”The only thing that kept me going out there was knowing that you were alive, and I hoped – prayed – that you’d forgive me and take me back, that we could have our home and our life back, even if I never solved another case. And then it was over, and I came home, and even though you were angry you _did_ take me back. That was all I needed. Being allowed to solve cases again was an added bonus. But none of that matters – _none of it_ – if you’re going to be stupid and get yourself killed!”

         Sherlock froze when the last sentence came out of his mouth, ripped as it had been from the depths of his soul. There it was, the truth laid bare, and he couldn't stuff those words back inside himself. He could feel John’s eyes scanning him, reading him like no one else – not even Mycroft – could. Disgust roiled in his gut; the last thing he wanted was John’s pity. He let go of John’s shoulders and backed away, dropping his gaze. The tears he’d fought so well to contain finally betrayed him and fell down his cheeks, dripping off his chin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, hating how weak he sounded. He swallowed, and tried to pull on his normal façade of detachment. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice cold and dismissive. “I must be tired.” Keeping his eyes averted, he rounded the end of his bed and sat down, his back to John, his posture rigid. “I’m going to bed. Please close the door on your way out.”

         “No.”

 _No? What the hell was John playing at?_ Sherlock thought. Wasn't it enough that he’d embarrassed and humiliated himself in front of his only friend? Did John have to rub it in, some form of schadenfreude? Maybe this was John’s way of getting back at him for being gone so long, for the deception – a taste of his own medicine, perhaps? Sherlock looked over his shoulder, with a gaze that could cut diamonds. “What do you mean, ‘no’? This is my room. I’m asking you politely to _leave_.”

         John smiled, his expression warm and open, as he rounded the end of the bed and came to a stop directly in front of Sherlock. He peered up at John suspiciously.

         Then John, wonderful, loyal, predictable John, did the unexpected: he reached out with his right hand and caressed Sherlock’s cheek.

         Sherlock’s resolve crumbled on the spot, his anger vanishing, replaced by sorrow and shame. What the hell kind of friend was he to John, getting so angry with him for being injured instead of taking care of him? And now John was comforting _Sherlock_ instead of the other way round. Why did John even put up with him? What had he ever done in this world to deserve such a friend?

         Before he even realized what he was doing, Sherlock reached out to encircle John’s waist with his arms, pulling John toward him and burying his tear-streaked face in his friend’s soft, jumper-clad stomach. He breathed deeply, inhaling all the scents, both natural and chemical, that comprised John, and felt his hand gently card through his hair. He thought about what he’d almost lost tonight, and the grief and sadness associated with that thought consumed him as he started sobbing into John’s jumper. He didn't bother trying to hold back anymore; everything he’d been feeling from the moment he heard the gunshot came pouring out of him as he dampened the jumper with his tears. And there was John, his best friend, stroking his hair and murmuring soothing words that Sherlock barely heard as he held him close.

         Eventually – Sherlock had, uncharacteristically, lost track of time – his sobs subsided into awkward gulps of air and sighs. He reluctantly let go of John’s waist and let his arms fall into his lap before wiping his face with his hands. He felt the bed dip next to his left hip as John sat down, wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock relaxed into the embrace and rested his head on John’s shoulder, too emotionally wrung out to care about the consequences. He was tired, had been tired since Moriarty and his hat-trick of break-ins had kicked off three years of misery for him and John, and just couldn't be arsed to put up walls between him and his best friend anymore. He cared about John, and even with his limited social expertise, he knew his caring went far beyond that of flatmate and friend.

         After a few moments, Sherlock found his voice again. “Thank you,” he said softly.

         “For what?” John asked.

         “For – that. For not dying. For everything.” Sherlock was at a loss for words, but then John surprised him again by pulling him even closer and kissing his head. Sherlock felt his friend stiffen, like John had just realized what he’d done, and Sherlock decided then and there that he wasn't going to let this go on any longer. He knew now what he felt for John, he now had irrefutable proof that John felt the same way, and he wasn't going to live another day without acknowledging it. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist again, and buried his face in his friend’s neck, breathing deeply of John’s scent. He felt John relax again, and closed his eyes. The hurricane of thoughts that had been whirling in his head had finally calmed, replaced by something far more serene and peaceful. _John is here. John is alive. John loves me._ Sherlock let those thoughts play in his head like a litany, and could feel his body relaxing for the first time in several hours.

         Sherlock must have started to drift off, because the next thing he remembered was John saying, “Sherlock, you need rest. Time for bed.”

         Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s waist fractionally. “Not without you,” he mumbled into John's neck.

         “I’m sorry, I didn't catch that,” John said quietly.

         Normally Sherlock was loathe to repeat himself, but this was too important for John to misunderstand. He raised his head off of John’s shoulder. “I said, not without you.”

         John turned his head to look at Sherlock, and Sherlock held his gaze. He tried to pour everything he felt for him into his expression, holding nothing back. He could see John parsing his expression, and a look of wonder crossed his face, practically telegraphing John’s thoughts, and he knew then that John saw everything he needed to see. He couldn't completely repress a smile as he answered John’s silent question. “Yes, it is, and yes, I do. Don’t be boring and make me actually _say_ it.”

         John’s grin lit up his whole face, and Sherlock inwardly sighed in relief. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he said, not breaking his gaze with Sherlock. There was an irresistible pull to get closer to his friend, to remove any space between them, and before he knew it, their lips were brushing ever so gently in a kiss. John pulled back fractionally, and Sherlock could see that John was trying to decide if the kiss had actually happened, so he decided to remove all doubt as he leaned forward and pressed his lips a bit more firmly to John’s, and felt him relax into the kiss. Sherlock had never set much store by romantic clichés before, but he couldn't deny the spark that he felt in that simple, closed-mouth kiss.

         Ironically, his sudden need to be closer to John was what made him reluctantly pull away and stand up, shucking his shoes, socks, jacket, shirt and trousers briskly and pulling on his t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Unfortunately John’s efforts to disrobe were hampered by his injured arm in the sling, and he blew out a frustrated breath as he unsuccessfully tried to untie his shoes with his non-dominant hand.

         Sherlock fell to his knees in front of John. “Here, let me,” he said, and John sat up as Sherlock removed his friend’s ( _friend? Partner? Life-mate?)_ shoes and socks. He could feel John’s eyes on him as his hands moved to John’s belt buckle, deftly undoing it and opening the button and flies. He grasped the waist of John’s trousers and John stood to allow them to fall to the floor, sitting down again as Sherlock folded them and set them aside. Sherlock raised up on his knees, bringing him eye-level with John on the bed, and very carefully removed his sling, laying it next to John’s hip. The jumper would be tricky; slow and steady would get the job done. Sherlock didn't want to put any stress on John’s stitches, so he pushed the jumper up fractionally and carefully manipulated John’s left arm out of the jumper sleeve without jostling it too much, then pulled the jumper over John’s head, folding it and laying it aside. The oxford underneath was slightly easier. Sherlock unbuttoned the cuffs, then unbuttoned the shirt. He slowly slid the left sleeve over John’s injury and off the arm, and the shirt fell away, John shaking it off of his right arm. Sherlock picked the shirt up by the collar, shook it out, and laid it across the foot of the bed. He looked back at John, who was blushing; he couldn't recall seeing John in this state of undress before, but he didn't think John had anything to be embarrassed about.

         Now that John was in nothing but his t-shirt and pants, the large dressing covering his wound drew Sherlock’s attention front and center. He carefully took John’s arm into his hands, letting his fingertips skim the gauze dressing. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

         “They gave me pain meds at the hospital, so it’s fine for now, but I’ll have to get the prescription filled in the morning.”

         Sherlock could hear the exhaustion in his friend’s voice, and helped him back into the sling. He stood up, holding his hand out to John, who accepted it without question. Sherlock thought for a moment about going to brush his teeth, but he could tell that John was two seconds away from collapsing with exhaustion, and to be honest, so was he. He pulled the covers back and gestured for John to get in first. John scooted across the bed and lay down, turning on to his right side; Sherlock turned off the lamp on his bedside table and crawled in behind him, pulling the covers over them both. He curled himself around John and wrapped his arm about his waist, and felt John relax into the embrace, though there was still a residual tension there. Sherlock realized that John was thinking about the repercussions of tonight, and what this meant for their relationship going forward. Sherlock knew there would be many aspects of this new intimacy that they’d have to hash out, but he knew one thing for absolute certain.

         “There’s nothing to discuss,” he murmured in John’s ear. “My only expectation is that we will spend the rest of our lives together, if that is acceptable to you. Everything else we can figure out together as we go along.”

         Sherlock felt the last of John’s tension melt away, silently congratulating himself on saying the right thing. “That works for me. Wasn't planning on letting you out of my sight anyway,” John replied, shifting fractionally closer to Sherlock.

         “Mmm, same here,” Sherlock rumbled softly. “Goodnight, John,” he said, brushing John’s greying temple with a soft kiss.

         He felt John’s lungs expand with a yawn. “’Night, Sherlock. Love you,” he mumbled sleepily, turning his head to brush Sherlock’s jaw with a clumsy but endearing kiss that filled Sherlock with a warmth he had never felt before. In that moment, everything that happened that night coalesced into one thought that drowned out all the others.

         “I love you too, John.”


End file.
